


Contact

by Ghostmonument



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Other, Thoschei, a fencing match but with words, absolutely no choking btw, best enemies, but what am I the thought police? come on, friends to enemies to friends to enemies to friends to -, let me be clear: he thinks about it, literally just the dumbest geniuses in the universe, mistaking hate for love or maybe vice versa, nothing gets resolved, post Spyfall, this isn't my ship im just visiting but like really guys can't you have a single name for it, two time lords one brain cell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:35:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22611889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostmonument/pseuds/Ghostmonument
Summary: What if instead of searching for cryptic signs of the Master, the Doctor just ... texted him? What if they took their intergalactic game of semi-horny chess to... a cafe? What if they managed to share more than a single braincell? The Doctor and Master sit down for a short conversation and resolve absolutely nothing but the further revelations of their differences... and similarities.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 176





	Contact

He wonders why being alone now feels so annoyingly like loneliness.

After all, he does not expect to hear from her again, not directly. And not because she thinks him dead or otherwise inconvenienced; she knows him well enough not to count on that. He hopes so, at least.But she has the habit of vanishing after dispensing what she considers to be justice. She takes a stand, gives a speech, acts the part of reluctant hero. And then she moves on. No second chances, no picking up the pieces, no thought for the expanding ripples of consequence. She moves in, acts, and vanishes. Always moving, always running, never looking back. Except those rare times that she is _made_ to.

He wishes she would more often. He _burns_ for it. Because she’s at her most terrible and beautiful, when she stops. When she looks back out on her path of casual, careless violence, at the broken pieces in her heroic wake and has to shield her eyes from the blaze of it. She’s true in those moments, with the universe bending around her and the burning destruction matched so evenly with her ancient gaze. She knows herself and the universe knows her, in those perilously honest moments.But she has to be _made_ to stop, made to look back and face her regret - and then discard it. And few are able to do that.

He can, though.

But she won’t be looking back now. She’s on the run again, excising him from her life. He knows this, and he too faces unwelcome regret. It makes him weak, and that makes him angry, and that makes him hate her just a little bit more.

Yet he keeps the phone - O’s phone - in his TARDIS anyway, tossed aside on a shelf so determinedly carelessly that he knows he might as well have put it on a labeled pedestal. He knows there’s no point to keeping it. Without the anticipation of it lighting up again with her name, the device is reduced to little more than rubbish. It was only ever a tool in the game, anyway.

He at least doesn’t let it attract his eyes, or his attention, or any piece of him that matters. He is his own, he will not give her that. She is gone, wreaking her havoc among the stars and pretending she’s anything other than herself.She runs, and he ignores the phone.

It works… until it doesn’t.

_Contact._

Just one soft beep, and yet it renders him to stone. His hearts are slower to catch on; they stumble and lurch traitorously. He exhales, slowly. Savors the cool weight of the phone as he curls his fingers around it, savors the anger he feels rising hot in his chest. Anger that he cares at all… and anger that _she_ might.

He lifts the phone, lips twitching as the plastic creaks in his grip. He’ll hate her if she’s contacted him. He’ll hate her if she hasn’t.

He holds up the mobile with a steady hand (but trembling, leaping pulse) and reads the notification, and feels the name register as a physical blow, like a fist against a closed door. He inhales and closes his eyes, feeling as if he might weep. 

He doesn’t weep. He _does_ reply.

_Contact._

It’s a short correspondence, terse. A date, a time, a place. So different from their earlier conversations, with no banter or sign off, no enthusiasm. He can almost feel the stiff, self-righteous anger emanating through her device to his; it’s etched in every letter on the glowing screen, and present in everything she doesn’t say, the omissions ringing so loud that she might as well have shouted them.

When he replies with a single stipulation, the mobile goes dark and stays silent for two entire days. He waits, impatient with her petulance but indulging it. There are times when he likes to force her hand, and times when he likes her come to it on her own. He thinks she hates both tactics equally, but in different shades, something which delights and enrages him all at once.

She’s good at that, always has been.

When she finally agrees, the cold fury radiating from the single word is palpable. It’s as if she expects the brusque message to wound him, all sharp edges and cold intent. But he knows it only hurts her. She’s always been good at that, too.

He tosses the mobile aside (truly careless, this time) and as he moves to his console, he twirls a pirouette. The game is moving again, but he’s not sure whose turn it is yet. The uncertainty thrums through his veins, heady and intoxicating. When he throws back the lever, his hand is steady, his teeth a quick flash in the dim light.

He decides that it’s still her turn. He wants to see what she’ll do with it.

————————————————

She arrives late, as he knew she would. She has never been good at waiting, and even he has trouble picturing her alone and quiet and _still_ , seated stationary at a cafe table and waiting for time to run its course. So he waits, instead. Patience has always been _his_ strength. And he wants to see her face when she comes in, wants to witness her expression as she scans the crowd for him, and no-one else. He closes his eyes as he imagines it, the murmur of conversations around him dropping away until he can hear only the thudding of his twin hearts… and then two more.

_Contact._

He opens his eyes just as the door jingles softly.

Even before he sees her, he can feel the echoes of her rage and confusion and grief, leaking through a telepathic bleed she seems deliciously unaware of. She steps through the door, her ridiculous coat flaring in the cross-breeze as she turns her head and finds him instantly. Now he can _see_ that wounded rage simmering behind her eyes. Her pain is so raw he can almost taste it, seeping from her skin and leaving bloody footprints in her wake. It is intoxicating; he wants to dig deeper, peel back the tattered layers she still holds to herself like a mask until he reaches the core of her. He isn’t sure what he’ll do when he gets there; he could destroy her, or he could unleash her.

She moves towards him, hesitates only the fraction of a heartbeat before dropping into the chair opposite him. “I’m here,” she says, and her voice is cool and measured, as if there isn’t a storm raging under her skin. “What do you want?”

“I’m fine, thank you for asking,” he says with exaggerated courtesy, and is gratified as she struggles and fails to suppress a scowl. “Don’t you want to know how I escaped?”

She leans back in her chair, breaking eye contact for the first time to look around. “Not really,” she says with studied indifference, clearly hoping to irritate him. He tells himself that she doesn’t. “A cafe?” she adds, true curiosity shading her voice, though he sees that she’s counting the patrons and exits. Always looking for someone to save. If she had truly wished to keep these people safe, though, she would not have agreed to the location. But he knew she wouldn’t accept her portion of responsibility in this. He always did make an easy villain for her.

“I thought you might fancy another cuppa,” he says, wanting to draw her attention back to him. It works; he can see the memory settle itself over her features, both of them remembering the last time he offered her tea. Those sun baked fields of Australia seem impossibly distant. He feels a twinge at that, and sees it mirrored on her face. “And,” he adds, angrier, “ _you_ messaged _me._ ” She flicks a glance at him. They both ignorethe server who appears and sets down two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits. She wrinkles her nose, then lifts her tea and gives it an impolite sniff. Not checking for poison, he doesn’t think, or at least not _just_ for poison. She was just like that.

“Yes,” she finally replies, taking a sip. “I did.” She eyes him over the rim of her cup, her gaze guarded. But not impenetrable. He could read the thoughts swirling behind her eyes, if he wants. But he focuses instead on counting the flecks of color in them, noting the way they catch the light. Whole galaxies move in those eyes; he can see the birth and death of stars in them, if he isn’t careful. His fingers tighten on the edge of the table.

“Why?” he asks, and sees her blink at the roughness of his tone. Her eyes flick down to his hand, and he relaxes it with a conscious effort, leaning back as if her answer is inconsequential. Because it is, of course. He sips his own tea without tasting it, unable to look away from her.

“I had to - know,” she says after a moment. “You have a habit of surviving the impossible.” She looks for a moment as if she might smile, just a quick twist of her lips, but suppresses it. He sneers.

“Hardly impossible,” he says derisively, watching as she stirs an entirely inappropriate amount of sugar into her tea. He refuses to be amused by it. She tilts her head, conceding the point and in the process shifting her hair along her neck. He looks away from that flash of skin, but it takes longer than it should. He takes another tasteless sip of tea.

“So tell me something impossible then,” she says, and her voice is light but her eyes are heavy. He knows what she’s going to say next, and is already shaking his head. “Tell me why you did it -”

 _“No,”_ he says sharply, closing his eyes and rolling his neck while his rage flashes hot. The conversation around them dips as the patrons look at him. “No. It doesn’t work like that.” He bites off each word, slapping his hand on the table. He’s angry with her for messing this up. For not abiding by the rules. He opens his eyes and sees her regarding him. She’s gone still, but looks only slightly annoyed. She clearly hadn’t expected an answer, perhaps only wished to gauge his reaction. His anger flares again, then seeps away like the tide. He smiles at her, and that makes her brows twitch. _Keep her guessing, keep her in the moment._

They stare at each other for a long moment, as conversation creeps back up around them. She reaches for a biscuit. “What is the timeless -”

“NO!”

He bangs his fist down on the table, rattling the tea cups. He watches as a drop trembles on the rim of her cup, just shy of spilling. One more push, maybe. It’s silent in the cafe, all those people looking stupidly at them. He wants to kill them in that moment, for trespassing on this. For daring to witness this conversation as if they _mattered_. He ignores them, though, because she’s still looking at him. She’s frowning faintly, but then shrugs and pops an entire biscuit into her mouth.

“If you’re not going to tell me about it, then why am I here? Why alone?” She swallows her biscuit, tilting her head at him. Again, he finds his eyes drawn to the sweep of her neck. He grits his teeth, then rolls his head and exhales. She watches him carefully.

“We’re not alone,” he says, gesturing grandly at the still wary patrons of the cafe.

Her frown flickers. “Then why didn’t you want Yaz and Ryan and Graham here?”

“Who?” he asks, because he knows it will annoy her.

Her scowl is a thing of beauty.

“I don’t keep track of your pets,” he says, tapping his temple. “When I do have the misfortunate to meet them, I delete them. Saves space.” He leans forward, resting his arms on the table. One of her hands is very close to his. “They are nothing,” he says, almost gentle. “Distractions, and such _boring_ ones. Primitive, stupid, small.” He drums his fingers on the table with each soft word. She’s silent, but something ugly flashes across her face, like a shadow in a pond. He wants to follow it.

When she speaks, her voice is low. “Is that why you hate them? Because they’re _small_?” Despite her calm, her words have gained an edge, though she thinks it hidden behind civility. But he can see flashes of the truth, sharp and glittering like broken glass. He tilts his head, leaning towards her until he can feel her breath on his cheeks. He smiles as he feels it hitch.

“Isn’t that why you love them?” he asks, almost tender. She stiffens as if slapped, her entire face freezing over. He reads the truth in her nonetheless. He always can. He watches as she draws herself inward again, the moment of raw intensity carefully bricked over and hidden. She blinks, and her normal veneer has resettled over her features.

 _Normal._ He hates them for that, for the way they dull her edges. They make her reduce herself and become normal, boring, diluted. She is so much more than that, so much larger and older and layered. She is so much more. _She is so much more._

And she has it wrong. He doesn’t hate _them_ for being small. He hates them for making _her_ small.

“They remind me of what’s important,” she retorts, and she’s struggling to blunt that edge now; it flashes through the cracks of her civility with each word, seeking blood. “They keep me honest.”

Gods, does she even hear herself? It’s too much; he laughs in her face. She recoils, offended, but his fingers are suddenly wrapped around her wrist, her twin pulses fluttering in his grip. She goes very still. Their faces are only a breath apart. Her eyes are locked on his, and they shift and glitter. Shadows in a pond, broken glass. _H_ _er._

She takes a breath, and again he finds himself looking at the lines of her neck, the hollow of her throat. It snags his attention in a way he doesn’t understand. He only knows that he can’t stop looking at it. He remembers it in so many different forms, different bodies and shapes and outfits. For a moment he even sees the ornate and suffocating drape of a Gallifreyan collar around her neck. He blinks and it’s gone, just the flash of pale skin and brush of blonde hair again. Unadorned, unassuming, vastly preferable. He hates that, hates that he might have a preference. He drags his gaze away, but even so he’s still aware of her neck, a pull he can’t ignore. He hates it and he exults in it.

He wants to wrap his hands around it. He wants to press his lips against it.

He’s gripping her wrist too tight, but she doesn’t pull away. Not yet. He smiles at her, knowing madness dances in his eyes, knowing she sees it. “They diminish you,” he says, still smiling even as venom drips from his every syllable. He drops his voice lower, harsher. “And they will _never_ understand you.” _Not like I do._

She jerks her arm away at that, finally, and he closes his eyes. When he opens them she’s straightening her coat and not looking at him. She never sees him, not really.

“You’re wrong,” she says shortly. He wonders if she manages to convince herself, with all that false conviction. He decides that she probably does; she’s made rather a life of doing so.

“It’s funny, isn’t it,” he muses, as she pushes her chair back with a dull scrape. Preparing to leave. She looks at him, still too angry to be truly wary or hide herself. “It’s funny, how you spend so much time convincing everyone that you’re someone different, and I…” he lifts his cold tea, watches her eyes flick to it and back to him again, “I only show them myself. Which do you think is more _honest?”_ He tips the tea towards her, then downs it in one tasteless gulp.

She stands up, pale but almost glowing with a cold anger he can feel burning in her hearts. In that moment there’s little to her that isn’t sharp and jagged edges; he feels he could cut himself on her, if he so cared to try. It’s tempting. He wishes very suddenly that her pets were here, to see this, the truth of her. They would reject her, he thinks. In the end. And he would still be here.

“Stay out of my way,” she says, pushing her hair from her eyes.She hesitates, and a fraction of a snarl flits across her face before she spins on her heel and stalks away, bumping the table.

“Kisses,” he calls after her, and watches the blow land across stiffened shoulders.

And then she’s gone.

He looks down at the table and their abandoned tea. A drop still clings trembling to the rim of her cup. He tilts his head, but it becomes apparent that it won’t fall. He nods to himself, closes his eyes.

The sound of his fist slamming against the wooden table is enough to kill the conversation again, and the ringing silence is sweet, broken only by the slow drip of tea off the table. Pushing his way out of the cafe, the patrons still gape after him like so many startled sheep. He clenches and unclenches his aching fist, relishing the dull pain. A few drops of tea stain his sleeves, and he smiles when he sees them.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I'm sure there are approximately 39430304 fics like this already and I never once in my life had any intention of writing something from the Master's POV, ever. And yet a few lines of dialogue and a scene managed to lodge in my brain and I jotted it down just to get it out, and then this kinda just... happened. I tried some new (weird?) things with this, and I really wanted to keep it short, a vignette that explores a possible facet of their ridiculous relationship. And I needed to get it out before the season finale which will hopefully answer a lot of questions and probably ruin the canon of this which is FINE I'm just. I love these two idiot time lords so much. UGH they're so dumb. 
> 
> If you made it this far, thank you and I hope you enjoyed it!


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